Comment
Michael Bleby
Joel comes every second Monday. He does a great job of keeping our small Johannesburg garden in shape. Joel is one of hundreds of thousands of Zimbabweans who pull out weeds, mop floors and serve customers in SA’s cities and towns. I don’t know if he is here legally. I have never asked, but I can guess. If he wasn’t, I don’t expect he’d tell me the truth. It wouldn’t, in any event, lessen his need for the R70 I pay him for a couple of hours’ work. With his own country collapsing, gardening is one way Joel can feed his family. He’s been coming to us for two years, now, eking out an existence in the gardens of Jo'burg to support his daughters, aged 13 and barely 18 months, who live outside Bulawayo.
In many ways Joel symbolises the fate of his wretched country. He carries great weight on his thin shoulders, but in a typically stoic Zimbabwean way he bears it, and grins. Joel doesn’t speak good English, but he has a great grin. When his second daughter was born his grin was joyous. What was the little girl’s name? we asked. Marvellous, he grinned. Every second Monday, my wife would ask how Marvellous was doing. Joel would grin and repeat what he knew. It wasn’t first-hand knowledge. He didn’t see her regularly. He didn’t even see her last Christmas. He couldn’t save enough for the trip and send money and food for the family at the same time. Basics are hard enough to come by in Zimbabwe. Specialities such as baby formula don’t exist. To buy a large tin of formula costs about R300 and he would spend half as much again to get it delivered.
It has been a very difficult 12 months. Joel’s wife died last year. He said it was sudden, but nothing more. One of Marvellous’s grandmothers took over looking after her. Earlier this year Joel himself became sick. He contracted tuberculosis (TB), was hospitalised and couldn’t work for two months. TB is common among people with HIV, but I don’t know if Joel is HIV-positive. I’ve never asked, but I can guess. If he was, he’d be unlikely to tell me the truth. He’d be afraid I would sack him. But Joel bounced back. He takes his prescribed medicine, which SA’s public health system gives him each month, and he is keeping the disease at bay. Two weeks ago, Joel said he was planning to back to Zim for Christmas. He advised us that, with the signs of a peace deal finally being worked out, he might stay. Last week, however, a proposed peace deal between Robert Mugabe and Morgan Tsvangirai deadlocked.
Then last week Joel got terrible news. An SMS from his family asked him to call. When he did, he heard that Marvellous had died. Joel usually comes on a Monday, but he came last Saturday. We and some of his other clients gave him money to get home. My wife took his hand and said how sorry she was. On our garage step, Joel burst into tears. He buried his head in his arms and cried. It was just as eloquent as that grin, but far, far more painful. When he stopped crying, I asked him where his daughter was. In a reminder of the surreal tragedy he was returning to, he said he would need Z$16m to pay for the body and take it home for burial at his home about 20km outside of Bulawayo.
This week, Zanu PF and Movement for Democratic Change leaders were due to travel to Swaziland to try to sort out the deadlock under regional mediation. It didn’t happen, as accusations and counteraccusations about a passport stopped the main figures from meeting. Joel, however, travelled to Zimbabwe to collect the body of a baby daughter he hadn’t seen for a year. When Zimbabwe’s political crisis is finally solved, no one will be fingered for the mess. Not Mugabe, whose co-operation is vital; not Thabo Mbeki, whose so-called quiet diplomacy allowed Mugabe to continue as he has for so long. Nor will the UK, whose inconsistent policy over funding for land redistribution fostered the feelings of resentment that Mugabe successfully milked. The victims, by contrast, are clear. But how many are there? If I asked Joel, I don’t think he could tell me. But I can guess. There are a lot.
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